


Undersides

by fanbandoms



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22538692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanbandoms/pseuds/fanbandoms
Summary: Just putting old work I did as a high schooler on here to shame myself. Enjoy the self loathing.
Relationships: Frank Iero/Gerard Way
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14
Collections: Frerard





	1. Chapter 1

_I've tasted your breath, darling. I've tasted your eyes and your tongue and your teeth.  
All I really want are your insides, dear.  
All I want is your underneath._

You smell like something soft and clean. I don't know what it is, I've never been considered as such. I think your hands are adorable. I like the way you smile with your teeth. It's like they're too big for your fucking mouth, but they're just the right size. Disproportionately proportionate. It's the smile that swallows you whole. I don't know who you are exactly yet, but you seem really happy. I think I'm happy too, just to watch you. To sketch you, to draw you. Your smile is too easy, like you're high or something. I'm happy because you're beautiful, and I like you.

They're doing this thing where they take people's ashes and make them into diamonds. I would be ashes, and you'd be a fucking stone, to be worn on the delicate neck of every envious boy on the town. But you don't care much for them, because I don't think you're a day older than eighteen. I don't think you know a thing about the way your hips move across my paper. Daring. You should stop now. But those teeth are flashing a smile behind your lips and I can't stop staring. I'm supposed to be, you're a live model. But maybe -- maybe -- you're a bit of a muse.

Three months and I've seen you naked every time. You stand there like some sort of casual conversation. I want to draw your teeth. I want to pull them out of you – if it wouldn't hurt – and I'd draw reach and every one. And then I'd put them back very carefully and let them sleep in your roots and gums and tongue. Because you're so, so beautiful. And I'm a fucking wreck in comparison, with my teeth … they're practically yellow. And stale. And dirty. But you are clean, and fresh, and the way you say goodbye to me. It makes something move -- I don't really know what it is, but it moves like another planet inside of me, another solar system in my windpipe.

When I go home, I draw you. I can't even see you but I draw you. I draw you in my head when I'm in the shower. I draw you on my sheets when I sleep. You have taken over, and I wonder what you'd feel like if I touched your insides. And I feel a little sick, because you're so fucking nice. And so fucking precious. I don't know why I'm like this, but thinking of you makes me shake. I shiver at night with the heat up, pooling into my own sweat. I cook and I see your name in the spaghetti, your figure in swirls of pasta. Pathetic. My brother comes over and I can't understand what he's saying. Your name has invaded his speech as well. I didn't know that you were friends.

At work I'm a little messy, because they're asking for home paintings and all I want is to sketch you on my couch. All I want to do is have you lie down on my porch. My bed, if I'm being frank.

I would like the guts to talk to you some more, at least.

It's distracting my wandering fingers -- they are the traitors, not me. I want to tell you that you're gorgeous. I can't find anything wrong with you. Not even those scars on the sides of your back, trailing through to your navel. You say they're from darker days. Your eyes turn olive when you say that. I'd like to know the darker days. I don't ask. You don't tell. You just stand still, let the people draw those stark white patterns. I wish I was that brave.

When you smoke a cigarette, it's like watching Jesus walk on water. I want to hold it for you, I want to help you. You're young, and a cigarette in your mouth looks like a fiction. It makes me laugh. You think it's mean that I laugh. So I stop laughing. Then you laugh. Then we're both laughing. Then I don't know what to say. I want to kiss you, but I don't because that's just not ... right. But you feel right. And you look so right. But I'd love to get to know your body, and I'd love to touch your brains.

I don't believe you when you say you'd like to see me. You've got metal in your mouth. It's not a cavity. It's just a hoop on the side of your face. I think it's really pretty. I say so and you blush. You ask me for my number and I don't have a phone. I never needed one before. You give me yours. And a roll of quarters. So I can use a payphone. I'll just restart my line again, don't worry. But you do worry. And I think that's very cute, and I say that too. You blush. You also cringe, but you don't think I see it. Your chest is so white and like an orchid's breath, and I want to touch it. I see your teeth up close in their little home against your jawline. They make me smile. You're so damn pretty, like a tattooed angel.

But I am just a fucking artist.


	2. Enveloping Carcinoma

You fill me up like cancer; you fill me up with drinks.  
I'd like to take you home, try on all your teeth.  
You're bitter on the outside, your eyes are looking in.  
I want to stain your insides, I want to know your sin.

We go out for coffee. Well, I do, at least. You get tea and tell me that coffee stains your teeth. Don't I know it. The store is busy and smells like warmth. Maybe even the color cream. You look so amazing, even with that ratty shirt and holey jeans. I think it's endearing. You ask me what that really means. When you blow on the drink, you look so concentrated. I laugh. You scowl. We both wind up smiling.

They've told me that talk is cheap, but your cheap talk is the priciest thing I've ever spoken. We don't use big words. I was never that person. But you ask me questions that leave me winded. I don't know what I love. I don't know who I want to be. I don't know where I see myself in ten years. You do, though. You say you want to be treated right. You say you want to write songs. You say you want to fall in love. The way you look straight at me makes me shiver. You're so young, so vivacious. My heart dips when you confirm your age; nineteen. I say I'm 26, faltering a little. You don't really seem to mind, at least I don't think you do. I feel a lot better. You smile at my relief.

We talk about little things, we talk about big things. I never thought I'd say every person I've slept with right out on the table. I ask you, and you say you've had sleepovers before. I wonder why you're so confident then. When I say I don't believe you, your face falters. There was one guy, but it was a year ago – a big mistake. You weren't exactly broken hearted but first loves tends to do a number on you. I think you might be lying, but I don't press. Like your darker days, I don't want to ask. We immediately change to shitty bands we admit to loving, and the MySpace rage.

You tell me about high school, and how you dropped out when you turned sixteen. I'm a little shocked; you're so articulate. You blush because I said it out loud. Your mom got sick, had to help make ends meet. And now you've moved out, thriving on your own with live modeling. With some side work, here and there. I ask how this drawing class became a job, and you mention my brother. I always used to complain about not having a model to him. You say you're glad I found you. I say I'm glad you found me. You show me your teeth. She used to smile at me with false teeth, but not you. Yours are real, or maybe they're porcelain. Perfect.

I don't want to let on how much I enjoy this. Honestly, I don't think I've gone out in years. You're so pretty, too. I can only wonder how I get so lucky. We speak in hushed tones. You tell me our whispers remind you of Mass. I laugh; I hated Mass. Sometimes I hate God. You say you hate God sometimes, too. We go quiet. Then you say you don't need Jesus to get into heaven. That makes no sense but you defend yourself. Then we laugh again. Hushed little laughs. The coffee shop is so warm, and you prop your head up with your hand. You're getting tired, it's kind of late to go out for coffee, but you didn't mind.

I give you back the roll of quarters and you give me that smile, then ask me if I'll still remember you. I wonder how I can't. I joke, saying that you'll be at my house in three days, no matter what. You give me this small smile like a secret, and you do that thing again. That thing where you look straight at me. You say that you want me to really remember you though, and not just a body to sketch. You're everywhere I turn; your breathy whispers writhe in the wind. I can't forget a damn thing. But I comfort you, and I comfort your teeth. Then we split ways, because you've got another job at a bookstore you're always late to, and I have a date with the backs of my eyelids.

You yell wait, you make me turn around. I do, frozen with confusion. You're running to me, like you just saw the light. Like you finally found God. You're enlightened. We're close and panting, the wind biting with an extra edge. And you lean forward. And you kiss my cheek. And that's all you really wanted.

“I'll see you later,” you say, fumbling with your jacket, blush staining red and fingers shaking. My hands trace the place you touch. I felt your teeth through your lips, so warm and soft. A little poem on my face.

I stare at you as you walk away, face nearly cracking from the weight of a smile. You're so fucking pretty. You're so fucking warm. I want to know you so much. My body is warm and achy, my nerves catching on fire. I can't remember the last kiss I got on the cheek. I'm so glad it's from you. So maybe I can keep it sacred, locked in the front of my mind and the back of my bone. Fucking beautiful.


	3. Crashing Mouths

_Lick my filthy bones, you child of innocence.  
I'm dying to drown you in my sordid ways.  
(What can I do to lure you inside?)_

I didn't really know that I was so lonely until I met you. My studio seems to bare and sterile, although none too clean. The walls are drab, missing the noise of you pressing against their seams. Your voice fills up a room, I don't know what it is. A certain charisma you hold in your teeth. The days passed by listlessly without you, and I was so tempted by the bottle, calling me. Alcohol will ruin me, if I let it. Used to take it so I wouldn't feel anything when his yellow dentures crashed into mine. Now I'm so full of emotion I want to use it to celebrate, but I don't use poison for fun anymore. It seems wrong.

I'm so excited when you walk through the door. But then I falter when I see can't see your teeth; you're not smiling. Something in your eyes is hesitant, unsure. I want to ask but I don't know how, so I talk to you about little things. Mikey and his new prescription lenses. My three days of watching prime time television. You smile and run your tongue over and around your lip ring. It clacks very quietly. You're nervous and withdrawn. I have never seen it before.

It's not until the time of work comes along that I realize what you're struggling with. You give a shaky laugh as you strip down for me, hands trembling against your belt buckle. I shift, thinking of a way to reassure you. Before I saw you as a model, although one who was so special and pretty, too. But now I see you as something more. That's why you're scared. That's why you won't meet my eyes as you take off your tee-shirt. I'm seeing you vulnerable. You're scared of me knowing that. The way you gulp in a deep breaths before you slip off those boxers makes me stop you, halting. I put my fingers on the waistband and you look up, shocked and afraid. You don't have to do anything you don't want to. Especially not for me.

I want to tell you things, show you things. Explain things to you. I don't want you to be afraid of me seeing you and rejecting what I take in. As if. I hear myself saying that you're not Frank when you pose. I hear myself explaining, backpedaling. You're just lines and contours, a smudge on my paper that needs shading when I'm drawing. That sounds almost demeaning. You don't seem to take it that way. I say that you're not naked when I draw you; you're just shapes. I tell you I'll never look at you unless you want me to. We're taking it slow. That makes you feel better, and I keep my head down as you assume your place in my small studio. I don't see a thing except where the light hits your skin – at least, I try my best. Sometimes all I see is your beauty, shocking me. I won't tell you that though, I don't want to scare you. I used to be kind of scary; we all have our darker days.

My heart races in a flurry of attempted sketches and beginnings on canvas. Your body morphs its geometrics and I try my best not to notice how nice your bones are. Teeth are bones, too. It's just that you're the only clean thing I might get to own. My eyes rake over your tattoos, and I wonder how you're now suddenly so self-conscious. Scared that now, of all the times, I'd reject you. Shouldn't you be horrified by me? That I am taking pleasure in what I am supposed to be so subjectively viewing? It makes no sense to me. I'm the creep. You're still just as pretty. But I still try hard not to notice. Time passes in leaps and bounds and I'm breathless by the time it's over. You make me turn around as you layer yourself up again. Then you say it's okay to look. I don't just look though. I have to marvel.

I let my fingers trace over your skin and I feel the heat as it pour into your flushed cheeks and body. You say that nobody ever touches you the way I do. There is something so innocent and charged in that. It bites the air. Just like your teeth. I tell you I see with my hands sometimes. You lean into my touch. I think you want me to see something. The visuals aren't clear just yet. I want to take you home with me, and I don't want to be inside of you. Not yet, at least. Taking things slow. I don't remember when I've ever done something like this.

I take you back from the studio to my house, letting you wander around. You're happy again, back to the smiling eyes I've come to look forward to. You're so pretty, that hair falling gentle into your face. I brush it out of your eyes. Then I make you mac and cheese, apologizing the whole time. I'm rarely fine dining when I'm alone. It's nice to have someone to do something for. You smile as I sit next to you, and we talk about painting and your new guitar. Your voice is so sweet, in trembles and dies. It comes to life in your throat. It moves against your teeth.

The sunlight has faded in the sky, the only light coming from the cars below us. The way the lamp hits your throat makes me want to kiss it, just to be a part of your glory. I lean in, brush my fingers over your collarbone. You were in the middle of talking. You stop. Then I into your eyes, asking. You don't say no. I put my lips against your throat. Something in your breathing changes, hitches in your windpipe. I move up to your jaw and kiss the smooth, white skin. Move to your lips. You inhale sharply. I let my mouth rest on yours for only seconds before pulling away. The way you smile, dazed. I'm sure I look the same way.

You say thank you and I ask for what. You say no one is really nice to you like I am. I feel sorry when you say that, because I'm not doing anything special. I just want to hold your hand. You beat me to it, fingers gracing over mine. It's late and I don't want you walking home alone, so I take you in my car. I rarely use it, so it clunks a little before coming to life. You say it smells like me. I say I hope not, and that makes us both laugh. It smells like cigarettes and heat. Maybe I take it as a compliment.

We pull up to your tiny building, and I think it suits you. It's got exposed brick on the outside, and it doesn't look very fancy. Not that I was expecting much, giving your few professions. You ask if I can kiss you again, the way I did in my kitchen. I say I can do that. So I do, leaning into your throat and then finishing on your lips. I smile, and you say something crazy. You say you like my teeth. God, I like yours, too. You get quiet and ask me if I really don't care when you're naked. I say that I try not to. I think that soothes you, troubled boy.

I let you out of the car and I watch your fumble with your keys. I watch you smile and wave me goodbye. I watch a light shine through a window minutes later. I don't want to watch anymore, because I'm sure I'd stay there all night. I pull out of the driveway and down to the turnpike, a quick shortcut to my house. I feel the way you taste on my mouth, sweet and earthy and metallic. My body shakes in a brand new want.

I'd like to claim you, teeth and body and mind.


	4. Blackening Streetlights

_Inside crevices and outside smiles;  
I can watch you cracking, creaking, fading._

Bloodsucker. Like a filthy parasite with gleaming eyes in the night. All I can see is the moonlight, reflecting off hid yellow canine teeth. And I writhed, and I crawled, and I screamed. And I cried like a fucking baby. The way he slammed back and forth, the headboard clanking in all responses. And the way he left me in the night, bloody like an animal, dirty like something that was too disgusting to clean off. No rest for the weary, my teeth bleeding by gums through the pressure of his mouth.

I don't know, it's just a memory that keeps haunting me. I wanted to tell it to you.

I didn't leave the house for what felt like decades after that. Mikey brought me food, when I bothered to eat. But I still wound up gaining weight, wound up losing composure. Thought I'd maybe die, kill myself. Went to work once and saw towers burning and collapsing before my very eyes; watched as women jumped from breathtaking views. I wanted to be those jumping people, those stick figures on fire without faces.

Sometimes I feel like the world is caving on on me. I go through these periods where I can feel the pressure of noise and air all around me, and I just want to scream into the sky to release all of the oxygen back into the wild. Things feel unstable, messy. I think of you when I'm like this, when the monsters edge their way across my bed.

I've known you five months now and I can't help but love every inch of you. The thoughts I have when I see your face. Your body is a code, I'm dying to discover things. I need more, I want more. But can you know the dirty things about me? Could you even understand? You taste like the softness of morning every time I touch your skin. I'm slowly becoming addicted to your quirks. You've began your slow descent into my very life; you have your own space in my closet and a drawer in the nightstand. We haven't even had sex yet. I'm too scared to ask that of you.

I just want to show you things, make you smile. Talk about stupid slasher movies until our lips turn blue. Kiss until it hurts our mouths start to hurt. I pull you on top of me and feel that skin around your neck. You're so warm, and right, and hot against my body. I don't know how God made this wrong if it feels so right. The quiet stamina of touch. We go as long as we can stand.

You're hurting inside, and there is so much of you I can't figure out. To love someone and not really know them is hard, to say the least. I put my hands against you and your skin comes away blue. My fingers have paint all over them. You smile at that, and dip your fingers in a can of green. You write your name in my skin, and it's like a tattoo. I'd get it if I wasn't so scared. Your head crooks into my neck and you sit, feeling my breath. I feel yours. It feels like a warm day with clouds.

I take you to a museum and watch your teeth shine in the pale lights. It's a local one, for old antiques we're both not interested in. I just wanted to get out of the house. This surprises you, because I don't usually like leaving. But I've got you by my side, so what am I even to be afraid of.

There's a reason why I spoke of the man with yellow teeth. It's dark and I'm holding your hand, your laughter bouncing off of dirty buildings, making them clean. There's a shift in the shadows and you pause, squeezing my hand. I'm a little afraid. We keep on walking, down the street and almost to my house. Almost.

He steps out of the shadows, his smile dull and glistening. His skin holds a thin sheen of grease, and he's every bit the nightmare I thought he might be. You don't say anything. You just look up at me like 'is this him?' and wonder. It is him. You start to shake, then stiffen. Don't try to be strong, you're just a baby. Don't pretend you don't want to run away now, like me.

You tell him to move out of the way, and he doesn't listen. You tell him to leave, and he doesn't. Your voice trembles with fear and he smells it. I want to fight him but my teeth just aren't sharp enough. Not like yours, you can fang up when you need to. I know a fighter when I see one. You look back at me, scared. But I just take your shaking hand with my tremor-like one and we pass by, ignoring his drunken slurs of 'I'll be back' and 'you better watch it'.

Something broods in the air when we go back to my place. I turn on the television. You turn it off. You plant yourself in my lap, shaking. You ask if he does that often. I shrug. You persist. I shrug again. When you ask one more time, I shove you off. You fall back onto the couch, shocked. I feel sorry but I can't quite explain it. I've never been bigger than someone before, so I've never had the option to get rougher. I was always being roughed on. So, I immediately sit back down and take you in my arms.

It's okay, you say, running your fingers through my hair. We all have our inner demons.

But mine is on the outside, looking in.


End file.
